Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
ESME
“Your Highness, you look absolutely divine.” Naera, my handmaid, breathes the words with clasped hands pressed over her heart, as if she might float away from sheer admiration.
The reverence in her voice makes my skin crawl, and I resist the urge to fidget in this elaborate prison they’ve called a gown.
This costume, this performance, it’s definitely not me.
“Please,” I murmur, meeting her wide, hopeful eyes in the ornate mirror that dominates one wall of my chambers. The reflection staring back feels like a stranger wearing my face. “Just Esme.”
She pauses mid-breath, like she wants to correct me, to insist on the propriety that’s been drilled into every servant in this castle.
Then she simply nods, stepping back to smooth the heavy folds of my skirt with careful hands.
The gesture is so gentle, so genuine, that guilt twists in my stomach for my earlier irritation.
Honestly, the dress is absolutely ridiculous.
Crimson velvet so rich it seems to absorb light, with intricate gold embroidery that curls across the bodice like living vines before pooling at the hem in fiery spirals that seem to dance with each movement.
The weight of the garment makes me feel unbalanced with each step, like I’m wearing armor instead of formal wear.
The corset beneath? Pure, unmitigated torture.
The bone stays dig into my ribs with every breath, forcing my posture into an unnatural arch.
How the hell did women survive these elaborate deathtraps back in the day?
I can barely manage to fill my lungs, and right now I need every precious breath I can steal.
The sleeves are fitted to my wrists with tiny pearl buttons that took Naera nearly twenty minutes to fasten, and the neckline is modest enough to satisfy court etiquette while still managing to make me feel exposed.
Everything about this outfit screams wealth, power, legitimacy, of all the things I’ve never been and still don’t feel like I am.
Naera moves behind me, tucking a final strand of hair behind my ear with the practiced hand of someone who’s been dressing nobility for decades.
The rest of my hair has been carefully curled into perfect ringlets that cascade down my back in glistening waves, each curl pinned and positioned with mathematical precision.
Tiny pearls have been woven throughout the style, catching the lamplight like sparkling diamonds.
I hardly recognize the woman in the mirror.
She looks like something out of a Renaissance painting, like a figure meant to be admired from behind velvet ropes in some grand museum.
Like something precious and untouchable, designed to be gawked at and worshipped from a distance. Definitely not me at all.
A sharp knock sounds at the chamber door, and every muscle in my body goes rigid.
My breath catches in my throat, sharp, panicked, and desperate. Not yet, I plead silently with whatever gods might be listening. I am absolutely not ready for this. I need one more moment, one more minute to gather the scattered pieces of my courage.
My eyes dart back to the mahogany writing desk that sits beneath the tall window.
The letter still rests there, on top of the leather-bound journal Rue gave me just this week.
The journal’s cover is embossed with Night Court symbols I’m still learning to read, and its pages smell like parchment and possibility.
My fingers brush the letter’s crisp edges as I pick it up, my heart clenching tight around the words contained within.
The parchment is soft under my fingertips, giving me strength from the connection alone.
The words on the page are more than ink on paper: they’re a lifeline thrown across impossible distances.
Micah’s unwavering strength reaches me from another realm entirely, a whisper that transcends the barriers between worlds.
Micah,
I’m alive. It took me a while to heal both mentally and physically, but you have never been too far from my thoughts. I wish I had been able to see you before I was so abruptly taken away. But fate decided for the both of us it seems. . .
I scan the opening sentences that took me hours to craft, each word weighed and measured for the emotion it could carry across realms. The letter represents so much more than simple correspondence, it’s proof that I survived, that some part of the girl who walked the halls of HellNight Academy still exists beneath all this royal finery.
Finally, I fold the letter with deliberate care, sealing it with a wax impression of the Night Court’s sigil, a crescent moon wreathed in thorns.
The weight of that symbol isn’t lost on me as I slide the letter into the hidden pocket that Naera cleverly sewed into the side seam of my skirt, just large enough to conceal precious cargo.
A second knock follows, firmer and more insistent, making me turn sharply from the desk.
“Coming,” I call out, though my voice sounds tight and brittle even to my own ears.
Naera hurries to open the heavy oak door, but it’s not Locke’s imposing figure or Sam’s reassuring bulk standing in the threshold.
Instead, I’m struck by a face so achingly familiar that homesickness hits me like a physical blow.
Suddenly I can almost smell the musty corridors of HellNight Academy, hear the echo of Ty and Trys’s relentless teasing bouncing off stone walls, feel the warmth of Micah’s laughter filling empty spaces in my chest.
Miss Margaret stands there or Mageetha, as she’s known by her true fae name. Her ageless face breaks into a smile that’s both proud and gentle.
“Miss Blu,” she greets, her eyes shining with genuine affection as she takes in my transformation. “Wait until I tell Miss Bertha how absolutely radiant you look tonight. She’s been so terribly worried about you, dear.”
Relief washes over me like a tide, loosening knots in my shoulders I didn’t realize had formed. “I wasn’t entirely sure you’d be here,” I breathe, stepping toward her instinctively.
“I wouldn’t have missed this for all the magic in both realms,” she says firmly, her voice carrying the same maternal warmth I remember from lonely Academy days.
“Just look at you, child. I always told you that you were so much more than what that bitter high priestess tried to make you believe. You’ve truly bloomed, haven’t you?
The timing of this ceremony feels providential.
The Academy will be reopening its doors soon, though I’m afraid I won’t be returning for quite some time. ”
The mention of the Academy reopening sends another wave of longing through me.
A desperate, almost childish desire to run back to those familiar stone halls and hide from everything that’s happened since I arrived in this realm.
I wish I could slip back into that simpler life, back when my biggest worry was whether my magic would finally manifest properly.
I know with bone-deep certainty that I’m here for reasons bigger than my own comfort.
Fate, with all its cruel wisdom, has deemed it so.
I step forward quickly, pressing the carefully folded letter into her warm palm with urgent fingers.
“Will you give this to her?” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “To Micah?”
Her fingers close around the letter without the slightest hesitation, protective and sure. “She’ll be overjoyed to have word from you, dear. She’s been asking about you constantly.”
“Is she. . .is she okay?” The question cracks my voice in half, guilt and worry spilling out like blood from a wound. “I should have been there when everything fell apart. I could have helped, could have—”
“She grieves your absence the same way she grieves the Professor’s,” Miss Margaret interrupts gently, her hand finding my shoulder with motherly comfort.
“Micah is stronger than you know, child. The poor girl has thrown herself into helping with the Academy’s recovery efforts, exhausting her powers to restore the grounds, helping repair the wards, and preparing for the new students from Callum.
She’s taking it one day at a time, but I won’t lie to you, it hasn’t been easy for her. ”
Her words nearly shatter what little composure I’ve managed to maintain. The thought of Micah struggling alone, dealing with loss and trauma while I’m here playing dress-up in another realm, makes my chest ache with guilt so sharp it feels like drowning.
“But remember this,” Miss Margaret continues, her voice taking on the tone she used when talking to stubborn injured students in the hospital ward.
“She’s still Tethered to you, Esme. That connection transcends physical distance.
She can feel that you’re alive and well, and you can feel her strength in return.
Hold onto that truth and let it give you solace when the nights grow dark. ”
I nod frantically, looking away before the threatening tears spill and ruin Naera’s hours of meticulous work on my appearance.
Miss Margaret steps closer, pressing her forehead lightly against mine in a gesture so familiar and comforting that if she held me any longer I might break apart right where I stand.
“Go now,” she murmurs with quiet authority. “Embrace the future that’s calling to you, Miss Blu. And when you’re ready, truly ready, both HellNight Academy and Micah will be waiting with open arms.”
I squeeze her hand one final time, memorizing the warmth of her touch, then follow Naera’s rustling skirts down the torch-lit corridor. The stones beneath my feet are smooth, worn down by centuries of royal footsteps, and the tapestries lining the walls seem to watch my progress with woven eyes.
Two familiar shadows wait outside the ceremonial antechamber and my heart does something complicated at the sight of them.